What I Did (7 page)

I can tell this because how else would he know precisely what to do to infect maximum damage on me now? He reaches out and slowly brushes his hand backward through my hair and although it may look like he means it nicely in fact his hand just jabbers the billion spikes.

It is also two things at once: lovely and agony.

But before I have a chance to say either sorry or I hate you he's gone up the rest of the stairs past me three at a time.

His bedroom-office door shuts.

Click.

 

Sometimes when I go to school I say I don't want to go to school I don't want to go to school I don't want to go.

And in a way I wish I didn't say it, but it's exactly the same as when you shut your eyes instead of letting a fly fly into them. You can't stop them blinking and they can't stop it happening either, they just see the fly coming and whap, they shut. The word for this is reflux. Fly, whap! reflux. They're shut.

Reflux is another instinct from the ancestors, like when salmons swim upstream to get back to where they came from. Or at least they try to incredibly. The journey is fought with difficulties. The salmons may know the way but they don't know what might happen on the journey. Somebody else may have moved the river into a canal or put a dam in the way. Damn that dam. Damn isn't a bad word but you can't say it at school. Even if you get upstream to school, there might be a bear there fishing with its claws.

Sometimes when I say, — I don't want to go to school, Dad says, — And I don't want to work today but hey, off we go, and he says it out of the side of his mouth like it's all a very annoying joke.

Or sometimes he sits down next to me and rubs my head like he did just then, and says, — Son, I understand but that's just the way it is, we don't have a choice here, you have to go. And the voice he uses then is more like we're finishing up at the beach and everyone's disappointed that we have to go home.

But sometimes his voice will go all bright like the sun you mustn't look at directly and he'll say something like, — Well hold on now but they have splendid toys there and there's so much to do and you love it when you're playing with . . . all the toys, and all those friends, yes with all your friends, you just love it, I know. And for a little bit we both know that he can't think of the name of anybody at school until he tries hard and carries on. — There's Toby, he says, — and Simon, or Nick, which one is it, your other special friend there? You like playing with him, don't you, I know you do. And his voice is so brightly colored it's not nice: he's like a chameleon stuck on orange in a green rain forest when he says that. Bad camouflage.

 

Mum comes out of the kitchen next. She sees me on the stairs and says, — Oh, I thought you were watching—

— It stuck.

— I see. Well, never mind. I'll put it back on after you've had a chat with the lady, Sheila. She's come especially to see you. You can watch the rest later. That's a promise. Okay?

— I want to watch the rest first.

— Well, she says, — You can't. Not just now. Once you've had your chat, okay?

I do a small growl.

— What's the matter?

I don't really know so I don't say anything. Mum takes my hand. Hers is cool like the other side of the pillow. Mum sits me on the sofa. She turns off the television with the mote control and squats in front of me.

— So Sheila will ask you some questions, and it's nothing to be worried about, you just have to answer them truthfully, okay? She's a very nice lady. You'll be a good boy with her, won't you?

— I want to watch
Meat Eaters
.

— After she's spoken to you, I promise.

— Predators please, now.

— Billy.

— Now!

— No. I really need you to be good.

— My head feels electric.

— God, not now, Billy, please.

— But—

— You have to be sensible.

— But—

— You will be, won't you?

Mum sounds extraordinarily pleasing now. Please, please, please.

I growl again a bit harder this time and kick my feet against the sofa to demonstrate superiority. Mum pinches her forehead for a second, squeezing as if she thinks that's going to help her decide what's next to say.

But then the shape of Butterfly woman is in the front-room doorway. Too late, Mum! She stands up with her eyes begging for mercy which is brilliant, victory to me, and she backs away.

Butterfly sits down on the coffee table just in front of me. She puts her jeans folder down beside her and smoothes the front of her skirt out and does another smile.

— Hello again, she says.

It's hard to look at her face because when you feel shy faces are like bad magnets, very repulsive, so I look at the woolly butterfly instead and say, — Hello, to it.

— What's your name? she asks in a slow just-in-case-you-are-stupid voice. But I'm not the stupid one here! She is. They told her my name and she's already forgotten it.

— Billy.

— Billy. That's nice. I'm called Sheila.

Let's all tell each other obvious things all day shall we? No, let's not. It's very boring. Never suffer fools, Son. But then again don't be rude. It would be rude to say yes you keep telling us you're called Sheila, don't worry we've got it, I know. So I don't say that. Instead I concentrate hard on saying something nice about her name, too, and this is what I come up with: — The she-lions do most of the work in a pride.

She laughs. — I know! That's true. But how are you, today, Billy?

If she wants to talk like this I suppose we have to talk like this: — I'm fine, thank you, I say. — And how are you?

— I'm fine, too.

— Good, I say. — Tigers are bigger than lions.

The butterfly wiggles then and that's because when you laugh your chest shakes. Good luck, butterfly. Your only chance of flying is if this lady here takes you to a space where they have zero gravity.

— And how is your day going? she asks.

— Normally, I say.

— Normally? What do you mean by that?

— It's a normal day.

— I see. And what makes a normal day for you?

This is a strange question but don't worry, I know the answer. —Twenty-four hours, I say.

The butterfly struggles pointlessly again. It's easier to look at the woman's face now. She's doing more normal smiling.

— I thought you meant that there has been nothing unusual about today for you, she says.

— There hasn't, I say, — except it's not actually normal. She looks confused, so I explain: — It's half-term. Normally I go to school. I'm in Year One this year which is normal because I'm six. But today I'm not at school and that's normal, too, because it's a normal half-term day. Schools normally have half-terms in the middle and now is the middle. Everything is normal.

— Everything is normal, she repeats, but her smile has faded. It sounds like she doesn't believe me. This is annoying but maybe she is right. Is she right? Yes, I think she is! If you're in the wrong, Son, it's best to admit it.

— Except that my hairs hurt, I admit.

— Your hairs?

— The hairs on my head.

She's sitting next to me on the sofa now, with one leg bent up under her bum so she can sit sideways and see me. Yoga has nothing to do with yoghurt. Sometimes Mum does pilots which is quite similar.

— Your hair hurts? Why is that?

— Because of Dad.

She reaches across to the coffee table and picks up her folder.

— Why do you have a cloth one? I ask. She looks confused again. — Jeans, I say. On your folder. Normally they go on legs.

She opens the folder and says, — It was a present. Pretty silly, hey?

— Why do you use it then?

She smiles and shrugs. — Billy. Do you understand why I've come to visit you today?

— Yes.

— Why?

— You're delaying my predators.

— Excuse me?

She's staring at me superhard now which is suddenly very tiring. And it's Dad's fault. She wouldn't be asking me all these questions if he hadn't told on me.

— What do you mean, predators? she says.

— There are two kinds of thing, I explain. — Prey or predator. If you're prey you must run away or use other defenses like camouflage or armor. But predators don't stop trying just because of that. They still want to tear you apart because of nature.

— I see, she says, but from the stiffness around her mouth, very concentrating, I think she probably doesn't see at all.

— And I'm here to stop these predators, you think?

— Well they're pausing because of you, but don't worry they'll start up again after you've gone.

 

When I was very little, vertically two or three probably, I used to like writing nonsense in small notebooks. I didn't call it nonsense, though, I called it writing and I learned it by copying Mum and Dad, because they write with pens, too, but normally I had to write with pencils. Dad used to give me these small notebooks from work so they must once have belonged to the man, and when Dad didn't have any of the man's notebooks to give me I made my own by folding bits of paper and sort of sticking them together with sellotape or sometimes staples. Careful there, Son, that thing bites. Mostly those books came apart. But anyway, whenever I had a notebook I would sit down and do hundreds of squiggles in it because I didn't know real letters yet because I was a very young idiot. Now when I write I do it using proper letters in words, but back then ages ago I just did little up-down-and-across marks with gaps. Everyone said well done keep going that's great, until my friend George's brother, Felix, who is in Year Four now but wasn't then, said no, that's not real writing at all, it's just total rubbish.

 

Butterfly writes some stuff very quickly in her jeans folder and smiles encouragements at me and what I think is this: So what? You're a grown-up and grown-ups are supposed to be able to write quickly, and anyway what you're writing is probably still total rubbish. It makes me cross to watch her, but hold on, that's not fair, because it's not her fault, it's Dad's. If he hadn't told on me to her we wouldn't have to wait here while she writes in her stupid book and I could be watching David Attenborough instead.

— Your hair, she says. How did your father hurt it?

— Viciously.

— What do you mean, though? Describe what he did.

I push my fingers through the front tangly bit of my hair but feel a bit silly so I tug on it to make the feeling feel worse.

— I see. And has he done this to you before?

— Oh yes, quite often, I say.

The woman prods her cheek with her tongue and writes something else. Then she says, — Can you tell me about your morning, Billy? In the park. What happened?

I have a think then and shall I tell you what the thought is? Okay, I will. It is this: I think Jesus was wrong. Not completely wrong, because he was excellently kind, and particularly impressive on humans, but he was wasn't impressive the whole time. He was rubbish at animals. Apart from fish. He made thousands of them out of bread. And that's fine. But I am not a fish. And I'm not an animal, either. I am a human and so are you, probably. Well done, Jesus. But what about our ancestors? Yes, yes, yes, they were animals, too. And that is why sometimes we still have to do what animals do when they are cornered. What's that, then? I will tell you, but first I will tell you what animals don't do, or do hardly ever, and it is this: you hardly ever see an animal showing you its other cheek. Silverback gorillas least of all because sometimes they're too busy beating their chests. Which is a signal for what exactly? That's right: it's a signal to say, you there watch out, you're annoying me and if you do it again I am going to rip your arms out of their plug sockets. That's right, bugger off, or I'll retaliate.

Dad told on me, and he got to go upstairs to do his own thing, so I decide to tell on him, because maybe then this Butterfly woman will flap off and let me watch TV.

— What happened in the park? Butterfly asks again.

— Dad chased me.

— Why?

— Because I ran away.

— And why did you run away?

— Because he was chasing me.

Butterfly woman does another smile, very reassuring, and says, — Okay.

— He was the predator and I was the prey.

— Predator?

— Then he attacked me, I say.

— He attacked you?

— He caught me first. But once he'd caught me he swiftly attacked me, yes.

— How do you mean?

— He hit me.

— Where did he hit you?

She really is stupid, so I use a slow voice to help her: — Next to the park, I say.

— No. Whereabouts on you did he hit you?

— Everywhere!

— And did that hurt?

Is she a complete idiot? — Yes, I say slowly. It was agony.

She writes some stuff in her boring pad again now, and then finally says, — I see.

Well done, Butterfly, it wasn't that hard was it? We got there in the end! She pauses and sticks her tongue into her cheek again and writes down something else, and I wonder will she ever, ever, ever go away?

Not yet it seems because she's got more questions.

— Can I ask you to do something for me, Billy?

— What is it?

— Can you show me exactly where you were hurt?

— Why?

— So that I can help it not to happen again.

I laugh at her then and she says, — Why are you laughing?

— You think you can stop Dad? He is more powerful than you! Most males are.

She smiles again. — There are ways of helping.

— Okay.

— But to be helpful I need to know where he hurt you.

This is probably a test. I bet Dad has told her to ask me to undress because he knows I'm slow at clothes and probably thinks I won't show her properly and will get into trouble instead. So I start getting undressed. I concentrate very hard and I do it like Mum says, super-efficiently, step-by-step.